


Now You See Me

by Della19



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Della19/pseuds/Della19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so, in hindsight, maybe building a machine that watches everyone in the entirety of the world wasn’t the best argument against being a voyeur.  And he’s not really, it’s just; his body is a cage now, and his monitors are the only key he has left.  But, as luck would have it, John’s a bit of an exhibitionist, so it all works out.  Or, is it still sex, if you’ve never touched each other? Harold thinks it is. Finch/Reese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You See Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nope. Apparently Santa doesn’t take my calls anymore.  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Um…angsty context? Seriously, this thing started out as gratuitous smut and then it grew feelings and a plot. The fuck? Oh yeah, and also long distance sex. That too. Seriously, can voyeurism even be a warning in this fandom? Also spoilers up to Bad Code.
> 
> New: A Chinese translation done by the talented Seaslug of this story is now available at the link below, so anyone who reads Mandarin please check it out!
> 
> http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=74752&extra=page%3D1#

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 _Every breath you take/And every move you make/Every bond you break, every step you take/I'll be watching you_ -Sting and the Police, _Every Breath You Take_

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He used to go running in the park.

Not all the time-winter forced him inside and onto the treadmill, and Finch never ran in the rain either-but it was something he truly enjoyed.  He knows most people run because they need too, to maintain a certain weight, but Harold did it because he loved it.

Loved the freedom of running, the rhythm of it-and running in the park was a special joy.  The park was so much better than treadmill because it gave Harold the chance to do two of his favorite things; running and people watching.  And not in the socially unacceptable way-the lines just too close to being crossed way he’s all too familiar with now-but the innocent way.  One of his favorite things to do with Grace was just sit in the park and watch people; watch the rhythm of human life, the threads of human interactions occurring right before his eyes.

Harold hasn’t run in the park in years.

He can’t anymore, after his…accident.

He’ll never be able to run again.

There are a lot of things he can’t do now that he used to be able to.

On his third monitor from the left, their current person of interest kisses her husband, hands pulling his shirt from the waistband of his pants before the husband hits the lights and the room goes dark.

He misses some more than most.

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See, the thing that needs to be said right at the start is, Harold never intended to be a voyeur. 

And yes, _okay_ , Harold acknowledges that, in retrospect, maybe building a machine that watches everyone in the entire world isn’t the _best_ argument against that point. 

But still, the point stands; Harold never intended to be a voyeur.  The idea of invading someone’s privacy like that, when his own was so precious too him was abhorrent.  In the early days Harold hardly ever watched the video streams; only when he needed to teach the machine something, and he certainly never took any joy in doing so.

And then there is the…accident, and everything changes.

Because after the…accident, his body turns against him, and suddenly so many of the things that he used to do, the things that used to bring him joy and pleasure-Grace, running in the park, turning his _neck_ to watch people as they walk by-are all now out of his reach.  And the _pain_ -let’s not forget the pain, constant and chronic, a never-ending reminder of every new limitation and every lost joy.

Before, Harold was paranoid and private, but touch never bothered him.  After, the idea of someone touching him-of seeing his damaged body and putting their hands on him, of the pity he knows all too well he would see-is _unbearable_.

He may be alive, but it would not be a lie to say that he lost his life that day.

After the…accident, Harold’s body is cage, and his monitors are the only key he has left. 

His last resort to connect to the world, the way that hurts the least; his only _true_ remaining way, beyond all the artifice of his alias and false selves-the mid-level programmer, the insurance salesman, the paralegal.  The man who watches the monitors is the only true self he has left, and so, under such conditions, it becomes understandable that he begins to enjoy watching the world that way.

Not the death-never _that_ -but the _people_ , going about their everyday lives; the human condition in all its glorious joys and atrocious agonies. 

Naturally, it’s the latter that becomes the real problem, because the Machine-this thing he gave his life for, his child in wires and plastic rather than flesh-sees all, but it only flags the horrors, and these are the things that Finch sees, that fill his monitors and stain his eyes.  The _preventable_ deaths-all these people, with their lives and their lovers and their children-all so ordinary and yet so extraordinary-who could be saved if only Finch was another man.

But he is the man trapped in a prison of his own flesh, and so of course he can’t.

And so, he hires someone who can.

He hires Reese.

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This, as it turns out, in hindsight, might also have been terrible argument against being a voyeur.

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The thing-the data that Harold will dismiss as irrelevant and later realize was so far from it-is that there were no other candidates. 

Certainly there were other men-military men back from war, tired and disillusioned, pumped full of SSRI’s and anger that could have been motivated for one more round of serving their country before it finally killed them.  And certainly there were killers-men who would have said yes for the opportunity to have dirty hands but a clean conscience-but this was not what Finch needed. 

No, Finch needed someone very special indeed-a man soft enough to want to save the innocent and a man hard enough to do what is necessary to the guilty.  A man with the skills to kill, but the conscience to use them to save-a good man, despite a history of doing bad things for the right reasons.

John was the only candidate.

This, of course, is not to say that it was a perfect fit-not at first.

He calls them not so different, and this is not a lie, but this is also big picture thinking.  In the smaller, everyday scale, Harold and Reese are like oil and vinegar-Reese is hands on, high impact, guns and absolute confidence and Harold is distance, with his monitors and his gadgets; more reserved and less comfortable in his own skin.

At first, they…chafe.

But despite that, they are also effective.  The number is saved-the person who is so much more than irrelevant-saved by Harold and Reese working together, and for the first time in a long time, Harold feels something like careful optimism.

And then John-John who does what Harold can’t-John, who needs to make sure he isn’t seen stops, and stares into the camera.  And Harold, watching on his monitors, can only look back in confusion, because people don’t look at cameras-they hide their faces even when they have done nothing wrong, protecting themselves from big brother and all the evils they imagine it carries.  And yet Reese, who _knows_ that there really is something that watches everyone looks right into the camera, stares defiantly, face bruised and bloody, and Harold realizes something important.  People don’t look into cameras, and Reese isn’t either.

Reese is looking at _Finch_.

 _Here I am_ , John’s eyes seem to say, _look at me if you can_.

_See me._

Harold can’t-can’t look into this vacuum of pain-this mirror of his own discontent without feeling a chill run through the very core of himself-and so he turns the monitor off.

Not yet.

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But this, as all things do, changes.

They save more people, and in doing so work into a better routine together.  Not entirely trusting-Reese’s fact finding missions and Finch’s secrets keep them at a cautious distance-but good together, and certainly more comfortable around each other.

Harold lets Reese stand at his back; John lets Harold spot for him and his ridiculously large gun.

Trust-not absolute-but to men so private and paranoid, it is a good start, and Harold is content with it.

But this too must change.

And so it does.

Because then John gets shot, and Finch has to listen to him bleed out, listen to him die as he speaks to Finch.

Listen to the man tell him to stay away.  To try and protect Finch, knowing that it will mean his own death.

And Harold, who knows he should listen, should turn away because continuing means risking everything…can’t.

He’s seen so much death, so much he couldn’t stop, and even though he hired the man knowing he would likely have to watch him die, faced with the reality of it, Harold finds it entirely unacceptable.

Not Reese.

He steps on the gas, supports Reese with his own body-touches, when he still can’t quite abide touch-and uses everything he still has left-his mind, his computer skills and his money-to make sure that Reese doesn’t die.

Not yet.

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And he doesn’t-John lives, and Harold saves him.

This of course, creates its own set of problems.

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After John gets shot, and after Trask, the machine gives them a few days without a number.  Finch personally thinks the machine is doing it to give John time to recover, and since it means that John is less likely to end up dead, Harold is all for it.

Reese, in his predictable Reese way, peers suspiciously at Finch, like he believes he’s hiding a number, before he shrugs, apparently discerning that Finch is telling the truth and departing the Library, telling Finch to contact him if he needs him.

Finch makes it about 12 hours.

And see, the thing is, Harold doesn’t intend to watch John on his day off.  Really, he doesn’t-the man deserves his privacy-it’s just…the last time Harold went this long without contact with him, it was because he was bleeding out in some stairwell-because he needed Harold’s help.

You can understand his worry.

It’s practically child’s play to track Reese’s phone-much easier than it would be if Reese was truly trying to hide from him, and it’s only marginally harder to hack the nearest security camera to Reese’s location, just so he can have a visual, confirm that the man is alright.

And then, once he actually has the picture on screen, he can’t help but stop, held but what he sees.  Because there is Reese, alright, but not the Reese he is accustomed to seeing.  No suit, no guns, just a pair of grey sweats and a deceiving NYU sweatshirt-soft and faded from wear and age despite Harold knowing Reese never attended the school-a pair of aged running shoes adorning his feet.

He’s going for a run, Harold realizes, struck by the sheer ordinariness of the moment.  Because Harold has seen Reese do many things, many extraordinary things-take out entire gangs, shoot the roof off a car, survive wounds that should have killed him-and yet somehow this, this truly ordinary thing is the most surprising, most remarkable of them all.

And then Reese raises his eyes, dead on into the lens of the camera, and Finch finds he has to revise his previous notion because this? This is the most surprising and remarkable of them all.

Because there should be nothing intimate, nothing erotic about this moment.  It’s just a man, looking into a security camera in a public park.  And yet…

People don’t look into cameras.

And Reese still isn’t.

Reese is still looking at Finch.

 _Here I am_ , his eyes seem to say, _look if you want_.

And oh, Harold _does_.

Harold has to force himself to turn the monitor off.

His hands shake with envy as he keys in the sequence, and Harold is dismayed to realized that he isn’t sure if it’s because he can’t run anymore and Reese can, or because he can’t touch Reese and he wants to.

He thinks it may be the latter.

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It is.

This too causes its own set of problems.

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They don’t mention it, the watching-it is a thing without words and they keep it that way-but Harold quickly realizes that it isn’t a one-sided thing, is not an imbalanced endeavour. 

Because Harold watches, this is true, but John _performs_. 

At first he thinks it’s an accident.

There is a number, a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time with a camera phone, and now some less than pleasant people are trying to kill him for the video file he’s hidden somewhere in his apartment.

People like the man who is currently trying to carve into Reese with a switchblade as Reese fights him off with his bare hands.  Finch, listening over the phone, cringes at every grunt and hiss, and wonders, briefly, why he tortures himself with this.

And then, the sound of ripping fabric and Reese’s unmistakable hissed, _Are you kidding me?_ Has Finch hacking the webcam on the kid’s laptop faster than you can blink, and although the seconds it takes for the picture to come up are a special torment, the image that it reveals brings little relief.

Reese, perfectly framed by the camera, is standing over the body of the nameless goon, and he is clearly unharmed.

His shirt, on the other hand, has been cut, collarbone to waist, by a knife strike, and Reese’s bare torso, defined muscles slightly damp from the exertion of the fight, is on perfect display.

Harold’s mouth is suddenly dry.

It absolutely doesn’t get any better as John’s gaze shoots to the computer and, realizing that the camera is on, leans closer to the camera, muscles flexing, and his positioning puts a blunt, brown nipple on perfect display.

Harold’s exquisitely tailored pants are not quite as comfortable anymore.

“We need to find that file,” Reese says, seeming distracted by searching the contents of the computer, but then his eyes shoot to the camera, to Finch’s own, pinning him there with his gaze, too warm to be an accident, “Eyes on the prize Finch,” John rasps in that voice of his, somewhere between teasing and all too _knowing_.

And oh, Finch thinks, gaze fixed on those muscles, they _are_.

They find the video of course, save the number, and although they never talk about it, Harold learns something very important.

He used to think it was an accident.

He knows better now.

This…this is deliberate. This is _intent_.

This is not just knowing that Finch watches him-this is more than permission-this is _performing_ for him.

This is _participation_.

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It bothers him that it doesn’t bother him.

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Harold buys John an apartment full of windows.

He tries to tell himself there’s no ulterior motive for it.

There are four security cameras on the adjacent buildings that give him a perfect view into the living room of the apartment, from almost all angles.

He fails.

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John’s tiny smirk doesn’t help either.

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He doesn’t watch the apartment all the time-in fact, he makes a conscious decision-a rule he must follow, because he knows that without it, the boundaries  that he would cross would be unforgivable, and he’d never be able to look away-to only look when he has no other choice.

But yesterday John rescued him from Root-yesterday John did the impossible-hacked the machine and rescued Finch from a woman who thought she was entitled to far more than she was-who thought she was entitled to the role of Finch’s partner without realizing that the position was already filled.

Yesterday Reese took on the world and won, for Finch.

Today, John isn’t answering his phone.

Just a quick look, he promises himself, just to make sure the man is alright.

And so he switches on the monitor, keys up the camera with the best view and waits for the picture.

And then…stops.

Heart, mind, breath, everything just… _halts_.

Because John is there, sprawled in an armchair, thighs wide, every bit a king, lounging on his throne.

John is also naked.

And _quite_ aroused.

And looking right into the camera.

Right _into_ Finch.

 _Here I am_ , John’s eyes entreat, _just look._

_See me._

And Harold, _does_. 

Watches, heart in his throat, cock hard against the silk of his suit pants as John, eyes never leaving the camera-never leaving _Finch_ -trails a hand up to his mouth, wetting his fingers in a lewd, impossibly erotic show before ghosting them down his own bare chest to circle one of those blunt, perfect nipples.  And if Harold had thought that they had tormented him before, watching them harden into little buds under John’s fingers is a special torture.

His mouth waters with the urge to taste them.

And then John, John who sometimes seems to know Harold better than he knows himself, takes pity on him, hands gliding downwards until they’re framing the base of his cock, an offering for Finch’s eyes, head wet with precome, long and thick, flushed red with blood.

And then, eyes still hot and hooded on Finch’s, he pumps, once, slow and deliberate, and the beauty of the motion, of what it does to Reese, is almost _obscene._

And, almost without conscious control, eyes never leaving the monitor, lest he miss even a second of this, Harold finds his hands making their way to his flies, undoing them so he can put his hands on his own cock, hard and hot, aching with _want_.

And then, it’s almost too easy to fall into the rhythm that Reese has set-slow pumps into a firm grip-and Harold’s eyes never leave John, stayed fixed on him even as he copies his movements-a circle of the head, weeping now with precome, or a teasing of his sack, heavy and hot between his own legs, and he nearly loses it as he touches himself and stares at Reese-imagines that Reese’s hands are on him and his are on Reese, so easy to do given their matching rhythms.

Together, even in this.

And then, just when Harold can feel his own release start to build in his spine, John arches his back, the veins in his neck prominent and proud, his mouth swollen from biting it to stifle the sounds, and through his eyes alone, says the thing that Harold so needs to hear.

 _Harold_ , John’s eyes entreat, _come with me._

_Together, as always._

And so, Harold does.

When he finally comes back to himself, when the white of orgasm finally clears from his field of view, it’s to a visual that makes the ruin of his suit completely worth it-of John looking entirely satisfied, entirely _fucked out_ -hair in disarray, white streaks of come splayed across his own chest, eyes fuzzy from orgasm but still fixed on Harold’s own, so hot and intense.

His cock, previously quite satisfied, makes a rousing attempt at hardness again.

But then the tone changes, becomes soft where it was hot, yet no less intense as John stands, approaches the window, eyes still fixed on Harold, so unbearably fond, and holds one of his hands-so elegant for such deadly weapons-up to his own mouth, presses a kiss to the palm before placing that very palm against the glass, and with a little manipulation of the zoom, his hand is the same size as Harold’s own on the monitor.

Harold knows this because he raises his own hand, still shaking, and places it over the image of John’s; touching, even though they are miles away.

Touch, for the man who still cannot quite abide it.

He brings the hand to his mouth, and takes the offered kiss.

No, there were no other candidates.

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Somehow, this changes everything, but nothing.

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When Harold turns on his monitor in the morning, he knows what he will see.

The west entrance of central park, and people, going about their daily lives-the human condition, with all its agonies and joys.

He will also see Reese. 

Reese, dressed in some monochromatic sweats-nothing so pedantic as a tracksuit-running shoes adorning his feet, and perhaps a hat or gloves, depending on the weather.

Reese, looking straight into the camera.

Straight at Finch.

 _Oh_ , John’s eyes seem to say, _there you are._  

_I was waiting for you._

And then he will smile, and start to run, and Finch will sit at his monitors and watch on the various park cameras, follow John with his cameras and his eyes, see what he sees through his monitors.

They go running together now.

It isn’t the same as it was before; it can’t be.

But now Harold can run in the park again, can people watch, can touch without touching and have sex with another person who cares for him, no pity in sight-all things he’d thought he’d lost forever.

Not the same, and yet one by one, John’s given him back his life.

Harold sits back, and watches, and takes it for the gift that it is.

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FIN

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**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yeah, so this started out as a lighthearted Harold is totally a voyeur and John is totally an exhibitionist thing and then it got progressively heavier. *Shrugs* I think this fic was mostly born out of the idea that I really wanted to write smut about these two, but I was having a hard time imagining them actually a point where they could, with touch and not seem like I was jumping the shark a bit. And so this happened, which is kind of like phone sex but with security cameras and hacking skills instead of a phone. Oh well, I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out, and hey, haven’t written slash smut in a while, so that was fun! Also, the title is in reference to the saying “now you see me, now you don’t.” So, as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.  
> Also, as an aside, to any fans of my Stop All the Clocks series, I promise I haven’t abandoned that series-my Sif/Coulson, Sif/Loki thing is about half done and I just started penning my Darcy/Bucky fic (which will likely have the requested smut)-so fear not and thanks for sticking with me!


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